I Tried and Fell
by Lizzy Sidle
Summary: For years, Sara thought her past was in the past. But a phone call has her reeling. She's been accused of her father's murder by her mother and the detective convinced Sara's to blame. But how can she disprove guilt, when she can't recall innocence?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** **Sara's past in this story is derived from my other story "Cold Uprising" which is a detailed account of Sara's past until the age of 18. Certain characters and scenarios described are taken directly from CU, so I guess you could call this a sequel. But you do not need to read CU in order to understand. My thanks to Rosie for indirectly giving me the idea for this. Also, there will be a fair amount of S/OC.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own CSI.

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**Chapter One**

An abrupt flash of white light followed by a booming clap of thunder shook Sara from a deep sleep. The bedroom was dark—a slight anomaly, considering it was 10:00 in the morning. For a split second, she wondered if she had horribly overslept and it was evening already until she spotted her bedside clock and the bright red A.M. Rain and wind was pelting her open window, blowing cold water in through the screen. The blinds flapped wildly and smacked against the sill with each gust of wind.

Sara pulled the covers from herself and slipped her bare feet to the soft, burgundy carpet. She slowly trudged around her queen-sized bed, winding her familiar way around a basket of dirty laundry at the foot of her maple bedstead. With a yawn, she reached around the blinds and roughly pulled the heavy windowpane down, an eerie silence falling with it.

She flopped down onto her bed, maneuvering under the deep red sheets and pulling them up to her chin, trying to fall asleep again. After working for three weeks straight, she had finally burned out. Exhaustion filled every limb, and it was with little effort that she fell back into a light slumber.

Thunder suddenly shook her walls, and her eyes opened once more, staring out through the cracks in her blinds at the flashes of white light. Mother Nature didn't think her excuses were enough, it seemed. Sara sighed and pulled a pillow over her head, lying like that until sleep encumbered her body for a third time. And again, her eyes were forced open. She was about to curse the storm that invaded her precious time alone, when she realized that it was her telephone's persistent ringing that had awakened her and not a clap of thunder.

She tore herself away from her mattress and headed out into the kitchen, flannel pants swishing around her legs, baggy cotton t-shirt pulling on her shoulders. The phone was on its fourth ring when she picked up, hoping it wasn't Grissom telling her she was needed at work, for whatever reason. Did that man _ever_ sleep? Making an effort to sound as tired and uninterested as possible, she answered with a groggy, "Hello…?"

"Wake up sleepyhead—it's 10:00."

She blinked, stunned. This certainly wasn't Grissom. The voice belonged to a much younger man. She recognized it…but…she hadn't spoken to him in _ages_.

She was suddenly transported back six years, and without hesitation she responded as she would have that long ago. "Yeah, 10:00 for you, but on my time, it feels like 3 a.m.," she replied snidely, no longer trying to sound tired. She was certainly awake now. Her sense of humor was quickly running out of steam, however. The shock was setting in, and her words were choppy after that. "W-Why are…_you_ of all people—I…Why are you calling me?"

The man on the other end cleared his throat, his chipper tone gone. "Hey, trust me; I wouldn't be calling unless it was important. I respect your wishes and everything but you need to come back to Frisco today, so I can talk to you."

Sara meandered over to her couch, easing herself down onto it. She wrapped her left arm around a pillow, setting her chin on it, while her right hand held the receiver to her ear.

"You know I can't do that. If it's important, you can tell me over the phone."

He made a perturbed noise from the back of his throat, and Sara remembered it as the same noise he had always made whenever she was being stubborn. She failed in an attempt to stop grinning. This time though, she knew she wasn't being stubborn—she was being reasonable. He couldn't expect her to just _go_, not after they hadn't spoken in over six years, not after just suddenly popping in after those six years of silence, not after...well, especially not after _that _stunt he pulled.

"I just…I want you to come here." He paused, and attempted to speak up several times before he finally managed, "I haven't seen you, or even spoken to you in years. And…it's…"

Sara scoffed inwardly. No kidding he hadn't talked to her in years. She prompted him further.

"Sara…Just this once, could you come without—"

"You know I'm not going to go back to San Francisco just like that; it's rainy enough here." She glanced out the window on the wall in front of her. Streams of water poured down it, the downpour so heavy she could only see blurs of color beyond the glass. There was a greenish hue to the deep blue clouds, the world beneath them a dull gray.

"Sara, you don't understand. It concerns you more than anybody. You need to know."

She was growing annoyed now. "Then maybe you should tell me what it's all about before I even consider visiting."

"It's about your mother."

Her breath caught in her throat, and her heartbeat was suddenly louder than the rain outside. She searched her mind for the words to reply to this, but none came. Though she was certainly considering a quick plane trip now. She pushed herself off the pillow, into a seated position on the sofa. Her fingers felt numb as they gripped the phone. What could she possibly say to that?

"Sara?" came his feeble voice. "You okay?"

"I…"

"You need to come here. I'll meet you at the airport and we can head to Zorba's and talk."

"No, no, what about her? Is she dead? Is she being released? What?" She put a frantic left hand to her forehead, pushing the hair off her face.

He didn't reply, but she heard him sigh.

"Sara, just come. Please?"

She shoved her tongue into her cheek and bit it lightly. It was obvious she was getting no more information from him over the phone. A slight dilemma, since this was certainly something she needed to know as much as possible about. "Alright, okay," she said after awhile, the awful feeling of defeat lingering with her. "I'll meet you there, sometime later tonight. I'll grab the earliest flight out of here and call you back to tell you the time."

"_Thank you_, Sara." He gave her his number, which she mentally repeated to herself. She could sense his ever-present grin through his words, and if they were under different circumstances, maybe she would have smiled too.

"Get a good…umm, morning's sleep," he said. "I'll see you soon."

She said goodbye, and ended the call. Staring at the glowing green buttons on her phone, she heaved a sigh. She would need to call Grissom and tell him she needed a day off. How would he react to that? How would everybody _else_ react to that? How many questions would she have to face when she got back, and would she even be able to answer them?

A headache was slowly making its way to her temples, and as thunder sounded again, she walked over to set the receiver back on its stand. She scribbled his number down on the message pad and then headed over to her desk and sat down. There was no way she would be able to fall asleep now, what with the storm and now _this_ hanging over her head.

She glanced over the flights from Las Vegas to San Francisco quickly, spotting one that left at 6:00pm. With a deep exhale, she booked it and printed off the boarding pass.

She stared at the piece of paper, her throbbing head gaining in severity. Nothing good could possibly come of this. Folding it, and setting it on the side of her desk, she muttered to herself, "See you soon, Max."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

He hadn't spotted her yet, but she certainly saw him. He was leaning against the luggage pickup, a pleasant grin tilted to one side of his face as he waited for her. It was that same smirk he'd had ever since they were kids, only now it was nestled between 3 days worth of stubble. His brown hair was short and slightly unkempt as it had been the day she left him. One of his hands was stuffed into his favorite black leather jacket, the same jacket he wore whenever he went out. It seemed nothing much changed over time when it came to Max Hall.

Sara stood staring down at him from the banister surrounding part of the second floor. Her arms were folded atop the black plastic and she was quietly considering when to finally head down the escalator. Max was watching the moving staircase for her, but so far had failed to check the hallway that it led from.

She had called Grissom on the plane, conversation kept minimal.

'_Hey, I'm taking the night off. ' _

_There was a pause. 'Is everything okay?' _

_'Yeah, yeah, everything's fine. I'll see you tomorrow.' _

_Another pause. 'Bye.' _

Everything obviously was _not_ okay, but nobody was going to know that until she had some answers. Right now, of course, she and the answers were merely separated by an escalator and a small amount of walking distance. Maybe she didn't want to know. The subject of her mother was tender, and she was never particularly enthusiastic about the issue. It had been years since she'd last seen her. The last word she'd heard from Laura was _ungrateful_ as she hung up the prison phone. The last time she saw her mother as she turned to leave the prison when she was 18. A final attempt at closure had turned to accusations.

She had expected that to be the last time her mother would ever impact her life. That's why she walked away. She was trying to put it behind her, and for a while, it seemed to have worked. For _years_ it had worked. So maybe that's why she was so nervous to go down there now. Going down there would mean she had failed, in not only forgetting her mother, but forgetting Max as well.

On the plane, she had meant to compose herself for their encounter. She wanted to appear focused and confident, not needing to know anything other than the purpose of their meeting. But here she was, standing just out of his line of sight, too nervous to approach. So much for confident. Questions were filling her head the longer she stared at him—did he still live in that apartment? Did he still have that crappy car? Did he throw away the wallet she gave him for his birthday? She nearly laughed at herself. So much for focused.

As if the forces of nature were against her, Max suddenly coughed, turning his head to the side. When he lifted his head, he spotted her there, leaning casually against the railing, looking down at him. They made eye contact, and Sara slowly straightened up. There were no excuses to stay there now. She was getting those answers, ready or not. Her hand lay delicately on the handrail as she slowly made her way to the escalator. Max ambled over to meet her at the bottom as the stairs rolled forward.

"Hey," Sara said, flashing him an awkward smile.

"Hey." The grin was returned. "I have a surprise for you in the parking lot."

"What, the Golden Goose got a new paint job?" she quipped as he led her out the front doors, squinting against the bright sun. Her arms were crossed, her purse hung over her shoulder. She realized she looked defensive, and she supposed she was.

Max turned his smile towards her again. "Naw, better."

The Golden Goose was Max's very old, very rusty station wagon. Golden because it was originally painted a shiny copper. Goose because on the side it had the inscription: "G0053." Sara had never liked it, and was almost embarrassed when they'd go places in it. There were many times she needed to take him to work because the Goose had decided to break down. He pulled a set of keys from his coat pocket as they crossed the parking lot and pointed it at a relatively new Ford Taurus, which unlocked.

"Ah," Sara exclaimed, nodding. "New car."

He grinned and moved to the passenger side to open the door for her, but she waved him away. Once inside, they were silent. Max started the car, glancing only briefly over at her, as if searching for approval. She was looking out the window as she leaned against the comfortable leather seats. Her hands were folded in her lap, her tongue in her cheek as she struggled to keep from starting a conversation. She was saved the trouble.

"So," Max began as they finally pulled out of the busy airport parking lot. "How have things been?"

She spoke as level-headedly as possible, still avoiding eye contact. Slow and deliberate, she answered him. "I've been fine. You?"

"Good…I've been doing good. Glad I finally got rid of that station wagon."

Sara lifted her head and rested it between her index finger and thumb. "Yeah, so am I. What is this, a '97?"

"Yep. Got it for a good price. Not too many miles on it either."

Silence fell over the two once more as Max drove past the glistening surface of the San Francisco Bay. Sara stared out at it with small pangs of longing. Vegas was nice, and she enjoyed living there, but sometimes she couldn't help but miss San Francisco, couldn't help but miss going to the beach for a picnic or a swim.

"Been a long time since you've seen that bay, huh?" Max said softly, turning the vehicle away from the water down another road.

Sara shrugged. She remembered Zorba's Pasta and Pizzeria. They'd gone there together many times, and she knew their destination was close by. If she could just keep concentrating on the task at hand, there would be no need to ask personal questions. Pretend he was a stranger.

"So do you still live in that apartment or did that change with the car?" she asked as they pulled into the parking lot.

Smooth. Very smooth. She bit her tongue angrily and waited for him to answer.

As he turned the car off, he replied, "No, I still live there."

The diner was painted a baby blue, inside and out, fake vines and plants climbing around picket fence mounted on the wall. Max walked up to the maitre d'. She grinned at Max—obviously familiar with the man, and seated the two of them at a table far in a corner of the restaurant.

"Can I get you two anything right away?" asked a less-than-enthusiastic waitress.

"Yeah, we'll have the medium, all-meat—"

"No, _he'll_ have a small all-meat pizza, but I'm going to have a slice of veggie."

Max thanked the server as she walked away, then turned to Sara with a raised eyebrow. "Veggie pizza? I thought you loved Zorba's all-meat stuff. We got it almost every time we came here."

"I'm a vegetarian now, Max. Besides, I always thought it was too salty."

His mouth was slightly agape. "You're a _vegetarian _now What about the department barbecues? BBQ ribs, fried chicken—my brother's flank steak?"

"Look, Max…it's not that big a deal. Just because you could never be one doesn't mean I can't." She took a sip of her water, turning her eyes away from Max and instead to the large TV on the far side of the restaurant. A commercial for Ziploc bags.

"So…umm…I've been wondering," Max began casually, also glancing at the television screen. "You been seeing anyone lately?"

They looked at each other, Sara's expression a mix between incredulity and defensiveness. "I don't believe that's any of your business."

"Hey, it's not like I'm interested in _that_ way." He shrugged, taking a swig of his water. "I just wondered how you were doing is all."

"I'm doing just fine." Liar, liar, pants on fire.

"Does he have a name?"

"Who?" For some reason she'd suddenly taken to pulling her napkin apart into tiny, tiny pieces.

"The guy you're seeing…"

"Oh. Well, I'm…not exactly—"

The waitress interrupted them, asking them if they'd like anything to drink. Sara was grateful for the opportunity to shut up.

"Aren't they supposed to ask for drinks before the actual order?" she wondered. "What happened to Sally? Gina? Gail?" The names of waitresses Sara remembered who had worked at the pizzeria when she still lived in San Francisco.

"Oh, _them_." Max set down his water and stretched. "Well…I guess they moved on to _better things_."

Sara threw him sarcastic smile, mentally rolling her eyes at his immaturity. She knew he was mocking her, "better things" being how she had described Las Vegas. It seemed he had taken to the opportunity of throwing it right back in her face. Her annoyance was becoming unbearable. Being around him had her forgetting her original nerves. She just wanted to get out of there now.

"Max, okay, look. I'm not here to _talk_ and eat _pizza_. I'm here to find out what's going on with my mother, that you _oh so desperately _needed to tell me in person. We've got about 40 minutes left for you to explain everything. I'll eat my _veggie _pizza, and then you're going to take me back to the airport so I can get back to work, okay? And if you're not going to take me, I'll grab a cab."

He rolled his eyes this time, heaving a sigh. He folded his arms across the tabletop and leaned forward.

"Fine. But, uh…you might want to put your water down."

Sara pushed it aside, setting her face in the palm of her hand as she waited for him to continue.

"You remember the detective, back when it happened, who thought you were guilty, even after your mother's trial?"

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "Yeah."

"Well, he still thinks you did, even today."

"Great," she snapped lightly, looking back at him.

"Now, this _Detective Rayfield _has been speaking with your mother, at the prison…and apparently, your mother has been saying that…_you_ were the one who killed your father. That back then, she didn't want to say it because you were just a kid. But relationships change with time I suppose."

Sara blinked, pursing her lips in disbelief. "Great, you know, that's just great. _Thankfully, _nobody is going to believe a manic-depressive woman who has outwardly hated her daughter for years, so, I think we're done here." She lifted her purse from the seat beside her, but Max grabbed her wrist before she could get away.

"No, Sara, you have to listen, I'm not done."

She snatched her hand back and glared at him. "Then _finish_."

He took a deep breath, suddenly fascinated with the palms of his hands. "The thing is, they _are _listening to her. They're investigating you as a suspect and everything. Something about…questionable character? Apparently, there's a DUI involved? And they're reexamining the evidence for the murder. There was no DNA back then, remember?"

"I wasn't booked on that DUI," Sara muttered through her fingers.

"What about getting into fights with suspects?"

Sara shook her head in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me…how did they get a hold of that?"

He shrugged. "Somebody in your department must have given it to them."

She bit her lip angrily. "Can they even do that without letting me know?"

"Apparently."

The waitress dropped by briefly with their drinks before traipsing off again. Sara looked into the swirling drink, all desire for it gone. She didn't even feel like eating the pizza she ordered, now. She sighed through her nose, her eyes fleeting to her lap.

"So…what does this mean then?" she wondered, setting her hands on her lap and fiddling.

"I guess don't worry if you find police at your doorstop asking if you killed Allen."

"_You_ don't think I did, do you?"

"Naw, course not."

She grabbed a pen suddenly from her purse, and reached out to Max's hand. "Here's my cellphone number. If you get any more information on the case, that's very important, you can call me here. I have it on all the time." She scribbled the number across his flesh, then capped the pen, tossed it in her purse, and stood up. "Thank you, very much for…_informing_ me, Max. Sorry I was a snob about it."

"Hey, I dated you in an on-again, off-again relationship for years. I'm used to it."

She grinned, but suddenly realized she needed to pay him for the pizza and drink. She dug into her purse and handed him a $10 bill. "Keep the change."

"You gonna be okay taking a cab?" he asked, pulling out his wallet and setting the money inside.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I'll…I'll see you around, Max." She turned to leave the restaurant with a small smile on her face. So he hadn't thrown that wallet away after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_Crying. Sobbing. Red, the worst color—the color of death, of hate, of anger, of pain and anguish… all over the room. The traitor was on the floor, shaking with uncontrollable wails. Traitor…that traitor, the one who ruined everything…who deserved everything to come…_

Sara gasped and frantically opened her eyes to look around her quiet room, noting angrily that her hair, clothes, and sheets were dampened with her cold sweat. Sitting up, she placed her fingers at her temples and closed her eyes. Deep breath in, slow breath out…Her heart was racing and her breath was far too quick. Damned nightmares—it was the worry, the worry she felt over what Max had told her. She had been calm at the restaurant, miffed, but calm.

But she was far from calm now.

The plane ride back home had served as nothing but a quiet place for the circumstances to truly set in. She was being investigated for murder, and her father's at that. These court processes took time—she would struggle through days, possibly weeks, of mental torment, constantly forced to recall painful memories. The visions of the dream she'd just had were flashing through her mind, and she knew she would be having many more of them as her worry increased. What if she _was_ arrested? What would she do then? She didn't have anything valuable enough to put up for collateral, and she certainly didn't have the money to pay bail.

She slid out of bed, glancing at the clock with a soft sigh. Two o' clock in the afternoon. Usually she would consider seven hours a decent sleep, but then why did she feel so exhausted? Perhaps a hot shower would do some good. She traipsed out of the bedroom, through the main room and over to the bathroom door on the far end of her apartment.

Flipping the water on, she turned to look at herself in the mirror. She grimaced at what she saw. Not only did she feel exhausted, she looked it too. Her eyes were puffed up and red, her complexion pasty, her hair bushy in back and plastered with sweat in front. The effect was an aura of unpleasantness and misery…pathetic may even have been an accurate description. Hopefully the shower would settle everything back into place.

She stripped and stepped into the scalding water, wincing as it splashed against her. But she was soon used to it. The visions were still lingering in the back of her mind. She pressed her forehead against the cold tile wall as the water continued to wash over her, relaxing her tense body. Trying to make the images go away only made it worse. They became clearer and clearer the more she thought about them, to the point she doubted they were just from a nightmare. Painful memories from the subconscious.

After another deep breath, she grabbed the shampoo bottle from the small shelf implanted in the wall of her shower. Instead of putting it in her hair, she turned the bottle over and began to read the ingredients on the back panel. When she was done, she squirted the soap into her hair and lathered. She rinsed out the suds while reading the ingredients to her conditioner, and then her body wash, shaving cream, face scrub, and bubble bath. It was a method she had used since she was a teen—to cope and to forget—because nobody could concentrate on a nightmare when they're trying to remember what triethanolamine was.

When she was finished, her mind was clear enough to give attention to other things. She turned the water off and grabbed a towel from the hook outside her shower. She wrapped the sage-colored material around herself and stepped out to the steamy room. Wiping the condensation off the mirror, she looked herself in the eye, slightly more pleased with what she saw. The bags under her eyes didn't seem to have changed much, but she was now a pleasant pink. As she dried off, she made a mental checklist of what needed to be done.

There were errands to run today—her fridge was frighteningly bare and she desperately needed to do laundry. Bills still needed to be made by the end of the month. She hadn't vacuumed or dusted in awhile. How long would all this take her? Long enough to keep her mind off of things? Hopefully.

Striding briskly out of the bathroom, she entered her room where she grabbed one of the last clean shirts from her closet. She dressed while mentally forming a grocery list, her mind firmly set on grocery shopping and laundry. No stupid nightmare was going to stop her.

xXx

If she had thought all the errands she needed to run were going to keep her mind occupied, she had been very wrong. She had failed to accommodate the mindless time spent in the checkout line, waiting for her load to finish, filling in the blanks on a check. The loud drone of a vacuum had been deafened by thoughts she found herself unable to control.

She sat on the locker-room bench, staring blankly at the metallic door to her locker, trying to find the motivation when she felt too dragged down to even stand. With a sigh, she reached out to the door and opened it, tapping the door further open with her foot. She stared into it when a sudden voice broke her out of the stupor.

"Hey, Sara!"

She looked to her left to see Greg leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets.

"Hey Greg," she began slowly. "What are you doing in so early?" She turned back to her locker and removed the bag from her shoulder, placing it inside.

"Wanted to catch you before you got into a case or something." He stood up straight and continued, "I was wondering if you had a good day off."

Sara shrugged as she slowly stood up. "It was okay." In the same unhurried way, she removed her jacket and placed it by the bag.

"Is everything alright?" he inquired, raising his shoulders, and leaning against the doorframe again.

"Yeah, Greg, everything's fine." She threw him a forced smile. "Why can't I take a day off without somebody thinking something is wrong?" She shut her locker a little harder than she had meant to as she stormed towards the doorway with her arms folded.

As she swept past, Greg replied under his breath while following after her. "Because you never take days off _unless _something is wrong…"

When he stepped into place next to her, she turned to glare at him, halting in her tracks. "Look, Greg, I just…decided I needed a break for once. I worked for three weeks straight and needed to catch up on some things." Her voice wasn't entirely angry—there was a hint of tiredness mixed in.

"I've seen you work for _five_ weeks without a break," Greg pointed out.

Sara bit her tongue to keep her frustrations in line, and replied as calmly as possible with, "You know what, just drop it. It's unimportant. Just…fill me in on what I missed."

"A triple," Greg muttered, shrugging his shoulders as if it were an everyday occurrence.

"_What?_"

"Don't you watch the news on your days off?" He could tell she was at a loss for words, and he motioned for her to follow him. As they proceeded down hallways, he continued. "Warrick is here too. You're with us—Griss, Cath, and Nick are on some other thing in the middle of the desert. Anyway, the case—that's the other reason I came in early—had to work on the case. In here…"

They turned into an evidence room where Warrick was slowly making his way through a box of evidence. He looked up briefly, acknowledging them with a nod and a quick wave before turning back to the task at hand.

"So…what do you have?" Sara wondered aloud, making her way to the table and the small number of bags scattered across it.

"Shooting," Warrick muttered, marking down information from the bag of evidence he held in his hand onto a clipboard beside the large box. "Two men in their late thirties shot, and a six year old girl. She was walking home with her mother. They were all on a sidewalk, east side of Vegas in front of a bunch of apartments."

"Who called it in?"

"Mother," Greg interjected. "Her face is all over the media."

"It was raining yesterday—they were shot outside on the sidewalk…there's not going to be any GSR, is there?" Sara said.

Warrick and Greg both shook their heads.

"No GSR. We can't find the third bullet. Any footprints and trace were washed away by the storm. No guns or casings recovered either," Warrick said.

Sara sighed. "And let me guess—the press is expecting an explanation as to whether or not it's safe for people to leave their homes."

"Pretty much," Warrick replied through a smirk. "What I don't understand, is that it seems the little girl had no relation whatsoever to the two men."

"Maybe she wasn't supposed to be hit?" Sara wondered aloud.

"Well she was hit in the back," Greg replied. He looked into the evidence box and pulled out a handful of photographs, which he handed to Sara. "It would make sense if she was simply hit by a stray bullet."

Sara was looking through the photos when Warrick's pager suddenly went off.

"Robbins—he's about to start the autopsies. Anybody else want to volunteer?"

Sara and Greg remained silent, causing Warrick to sigh. "Alright then…Somebody's gotta finish logging this evidence."

"I'll handle that," Greg mumbled, taking the clipboard from Warrick.

"I'll stay here," Sara followed him with her gaze as he moved towards the door. "To try and familiarize myself with the case a little more."

"Okay. I'll fill you two in when I get back." And he left.

She looked back at the pictures, grateful for finally receiving a solid distraction. The young girl was dressed in a bright yellow raincoat, a matching hat on the ground beside her body. Her wet hair was dark and stringy from the rain, her face pressed into the hard cement sidewalk. The girl's name was written in the bottom margin of the photograph, "_Samantha Potter_." Other photos showed the two men, Tony Hammond and Archie Murray.

Twenty minutes later, Sara came across the drawn representation of the crime scene and finally spoke. "Greg, you only found two bullets, correct?"

"Yeah, one is still in the girl's body and the other we found in a tree behind that Archie guy."

"So you're missing the one from Tony, the second man?"

Greg nodded, scribbling down a note on the clipboard and setting another baggy aside.

"Well, what if the girl was hit by Tony's through and through?"

He looked up at her, and she moved the drawing over so he could see.

"See how they're pretty much in line? I bet the bullet in Samantha also killed Tony."

"So…what does that mean?" Greg raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Well, if the DNA on the bullet matches both the girl and Tony, it would mean her death _was _probablyan accident. I'll go down to the morgue, meet Warrick and send the bullet off to DNA."

xXx

Sara returned home at 5:00 a.m. that morning. Setting her purse on the kitchen counter, she opened her newly stocked fridge and pulled out a cup of strawberry yogurt. Work had been rewarding—she had been right about the DNA, and who couldn't feel satisfied when they were right? There hadn't been much but lab work to do, and she hadn't been entirely happy with that, but she kept telling herself the case wasn't over yet.

Remembering what Greg had said about the media, she brought her yogurt over to the living room where she turned the television on, flipping channels until she landed on a news broadcast. He had been right—Samantha's mother was the first thing to pop up on the screen. Her face matched her daughter's almost perfectly—the tears on her face as she spoke almost like the rain on Samantha's.

Sara continued to watch stoically until her yogurt was gone and the station moved on to something else. Sighing, she turned off the television and strode into her kitchen. She tossed her spoon in the sink, and just as she bent down to throw out the yogurt carton, her telephone rang. Her breath caught as she stared at it. With a soft sigh, she reprimanded herself for being so paranoid. It could be a telemarketer—there was nothing to indicate it was Max.

She made her way over and glanced at the caller ID. Her stomach fluttered. It _was_ Max again. Something must have happened.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey! What's up readers? Yeah, umm...it's been a little while but it's school's fault, so. Umm. Yeah. :) Hopefully things will speed up a little more now that I've gotten into the rhythm of things. Enjoy! Thanks a bunch! Shout out to Grissomrocks! (I swear, I didn't mean for it to come out like that. ;) )

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Chapter Four

With a sigh, Sara lifted the phone from its stand and placed it to her ear.

"Sara."

"Hey, it's Max," he replied, his voice warbled, leading Sara to assume he was on his cell. "I just wanted to call, you know, let you know they haven't found anything else incriminating yet."

Sara paused to take the thought in, tapping her fingers on the countertop as she allowed the relief from his message to wash over her. Scared for nothing. "That's good news, then, I guess…" She stopped moving her hand and spoke again. "I'm wondering though, how you're getting all this information. If I remember correctly, the case was analyzed by the San Rafael crime lab, _not_ San Francisco."

He cleared his throat. "My brother. He's one of the detectives up there. He's not working on this case, but he's good friends with a couple of people who are."

Sara vaguely recalled Max's two older siblings—Aaron and Kevin Hall. One she knew was a schoolteacher in San Francisco, Kevin, and that left Aaron as the detective in San Rafael. She barely remembered them. Kevin was married, and the last she had heard, had two children. She'd met both of them—Tyler was two the last time she saw him, and Shana was only a couple months old. They'd be eight and six now. Max was close with both of his brothers, and their families, but Sara had never met Aaron. It struck her as surprising that he was providing information to Max about her, someone he had never been introduced to.

"I'll keep you posted, okay? It doesn't seem like they're going to find much." She still couldn't help but wonder why he sounded so apprehensive. "Aaron said that that one detective…Detective Rayfield, I think, would be heading out towards you to ask questions and…and…make an arrest if necessary. But it won't be. They have _barely_ anything on you."

Sara's stomach squirmed at the thought and she took it as a cue to sit down on the sofa. "You had me worried when the phone rang," she mumbled with slight annoyance as she walked over to the cushion. "I wasn't expecting a call unless it was something urgent."

A pause lingered. Sara pulled a throw pillow to her, laid down, and set her head on it, wrapping her right arm around the soft material. She pulled her knees up to her chest and held herself in that curled up position.

"I thought I should keep you in the loop," Max finally responded. "And you said to call your _cell_ if it was urgent, but it wasn't, so I called home."

"You're taking a big risk," Sara managed through a yawn. She let go of the pillow and brought her right hand around her knees, pulling herself into a tighter ball. "Leaking information in an active case, let alone to the key suspect, could get you and your brother fired."

"Are you doubting my judgment again?" His tone of voice changed quickly to bitter and hostile.

Sara winced inwardly. "Don't bring that up, Max."

"Why? I'm just wondering what you're implying."

_Damn._ She hadn't meant for it to come out that way.

"Well that wasn't it. I just don't want you to get hurt on my behalf." She had wanted so badly to say 'again', but knew it would only spark more arguments. That particular topic was a tender one between the two of them. She didn't even want to think about it—it was too hard, especially considering everything else she had on her mind.

"I'm _just_ trying to help you," Max said through a sigh. "My brother was the one who brought it up, because he remembers me talking about you and showing him pictures of us. I didn't know until he told me. It just seemed wrong to know you were in trouble and…and just…just ignore it."

There was silence again, Sara suddenly finding it hard to keep up with her own thoughts. There were so few from all those years ago, swirling around in her mind, blurring her understanding of them. They played over and over in her head, out of context, but still providing that all familiar sense of fear.

"Sara…" Max said slowly, his tone transforming again into sympathetic and soothing. "Are you scared?"

She thought on that, but only briefly. In the same slow, deliberate way, she replied with a yes. There was nothing else she could say. The churning stomach, restlessness, and nightmares could only _be _fear.

"I wish I could help," he said softly.

"That's alright. I'll be fine." Her grip tightened on the phone.

"I guess you always have been, huh?"

She grinned, though she knew he couldn't see it. "Yeah, I guess so…"

And they hung up.

* * *

Sara woke up with a start, her heart racing and breathing strained. She struggled to make sense of where she was, since it was certainly not her bed. Within seconds, she realized she was sitting on her couch, the phone and pillow on the floor. Easing off the sofa, she brushed her tangled hair from her face and put the pillow in its respectful place. She picked up the phone from the floor and stood to place it back where it belonged.

Nightmares. Headache inducing, at the very least. She rubbed her temples as she strode to the countertop. The sun was slowly drifting away outside, and she wondered what had caused her to sleep so long. Judging by the amount of light, swing shift had only a couple of hours before ending. She hadn't felt tired after work. She'd felt energized, as she always did when there was a hot case. Why then had she slept for such a sinful amount of time? She had lain awake silently on the couch for an hour or two after they ended their conversation, thoughts occupying her time, but it still felt wrong. Never had she been so well rested and yet felt so exhausted. Maybe it would just be best to blame it on a messed up body clock, or jetlag from her plane ride.

After the phone and pillow were back in their place, she took a shower and got dressed for work. It was easier to block the images this time—she had the case to look forward to. She grabbed her home phone off its stand again and quickly dialed Grissom. She didn't want to waste minutes on her cellphone if he was going to tell her he didn't want her coming into work as early as she was planning. The answering machine sounded and she began to leave a message when it was picked up.

"Grissom."

"Hey," she said, trying to sound cheery.

"Do you need another night off? I can give you that if you need it," he replied. His words were slightly rushed, as if he was _forcing_ a day of no work on her.

"No, no. I was just letting you know I'm going to head in early."

"Oh." A pause. "See if Greg or Warrick want to come with, then go ahead. But I don't want you doing any overtime. You're almost maxed out."

Sara smirked. "Yeah, I know. Nobody wants to deal with me when I'm maxed out on overtime."

"I think you need your rest anyway. I caught a glimpse of you on my way back from the crime scene Catherine, Nick, and I are working on, and you looked like you hadn't gotten any sleep."

Sara shrugged, though she knew he couldn't see. "I'm…I'm just at the end of a burnout…I'll be back to normal soon."

"Well I would certainly hope so."

"Bye Grissom."

"Bye," he answered, before adding quickly. "Call Greg or Warrick!"

She hung up, grabbed her purse from her counter and headed out the door, rifling through her things as she searched for her cellphone. She jogged lightly down the stairs and entered Greg's number, putting it to her ear as she opened the door to the parking lot. It was always filled when she left for work. There was really nobody in her apartment other than newlyweds and older people, and none of them worked graveyard as she did.

The phone on the other line rang three times before Greg picked up.

"Hey Greg, it's Sara." She looked down into her purse, digging around for her car keys as she walked across the parking lot.

"Oh, hey. What's up?"

"I'm going into work early—Grissom wanted me to ask you if you wanted to come with."

She continued searching as he walked, head down, slowly growing more and more frustrated as the keys refused to show themselves.

"Well that depends on what you're going to do—I'm eating dinner. Breakfast. Dinnfast. You know, I've always wondered what people like us should call it."

Sara opened her mouth to reply when suddenly she heard an engine nearby turn over and the quick screech of tires. She gasped and stumbled backwards as the car in the parking space before her shot backwards, blocking her path.

"What the _hell!_" she screamed at the driver, unable to see his face, since she was on the passenger side. "Ex_cuse_ me!" She bent down to look through the passenger window across at the driver, but the insults she had ready were pushed right back when she saw his face. Greg hung completely forgotten on the other side of the line.

"Sara? You okay? What happened? You all right? I heard a car."

Her eyes never left the man sitting on the other side of the car as she replied. "Greg…I'm just…I was going to bring the dummies out and take them to the scene to see where the shots came from…is all…" Her tone had changed from angry to quiet. Very quiet. She wasn't necessarily shocked—more surprised at finding him here so quickly after she was warned. And_ here_ in her parking lot, practically running her over.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you later if you want."

"Okay, I'll be there. I'll bring you some dinnfast too. Fajitas. Without the chicken, for you of course."

She would have smiled had it been any other time. The passenger window suddenly rolled down on the sedan, and that face peered back at her.

"Long time no see, Sara."

Time had been fairly kind. He was probably in his mid-fifties now, and his face was slowly starting to droop. His hair was colored like salt and pepper, parts black, parts white, though mostly white now. And those eyes that he stared out at her with made her want to back away. _Far_ away. Far as in back to her apartment and hiding under her bed kind of away.

She wasn't easily scared, but it was taking all her courage to speak to this man as a levelheaded, mature adult. "Same goes for you, Detective."

He scratched his ear casually, turned his head from side to side, then looked at her again. "Come over here, so I can talk to you better." He gestured for her to come to the driver's side. "Come on. I wanna talk to you."

With a mental eye roll, she did as he indicated, very unenthusiastically bending down to the driver's side window. "What do you want?" she asked flatly.

"Now, now. No reason to get upset. I just wanted to talk is all."

"I forgot my keys, and I have to go to work. I don't have time."

"Your shift doesn't start for another two hours," he pointed out, and the fact that he knew that detail sent shivers up her spine. "We can talk."

"Detective, I really, _really_ don't want to talk right now. Excuse me while I go get my keys."

She made to move around the back of his vehicle, but he suddenly slammed on the gas and shot back in reverse again, blocking her way for the second time. She jumped back to avoid having her foot run over. Bending down to glare at him through the window, she spoke. "Get out of my way."

"We need to talk. Now."

"About _what_?" she asked snidely.

"Now, you see I was wondering when you were going to get around to that…kind of odd…like you were almost expecting me. There was very little…surprise."

"Detective, you nearly ran me over. There was _plenty_ of surprise."

"I'm just saying…you haven't heard about what I'm planning on telling you, have you?"

"There is a very small window of things you would want to talk to me about. I don't have to take too many guesses."

"True," he said through a grin, nodding his head and rubbing his chin. "That's very true." He paused, glanced up at her apartment building, and turned back to face her. "How've things been, past 20 years?"

"Fine." She spoke through tightly gritted teeth.

"Talk to mom much?"

Sara glared at him. "No. Never."

He raised his eyebrows, looked away, then back again. "That's a shame. Shame, because you see…I have. Very nice woman. And you know what _is_ a surprise?" His gaze hardened, and his voice became stern. "Seeing her behind bars."

"Seeing a _murderer _behind bars is _not _a surprise. I have to go to work now, Detective." She used the most authoritative voice she could muster, though just the sight of him made her want to run. She walked behind his car again, and this time he did not move to stop her.

"Keep in touch," he said to her retreating back. "I'm going to be in Vegas for awhile, it seems."

Sara stormed back to her apartment, stopping to stand at the door to the building in order to watch him drive away. She gave an annoyed huff before trying to enter. It didn't take long before realizing she had locked herself out of her apartment along with forgotten her keys to the car. The landlord wouldn't be here to give her the spare. It was a Thursday, and Thursdays were always poker days. He had pointed that fact out to her when she first moved in.

Cursing, Sara pulled her cellphone out of her pocket, frustrated with herself for the lapse in memory. She dialed Greg again and waited, tapping her foot, for him to answer.

"Greg."

"Hey, it's Sara again," she said breathlessly, tugging halfheartedly on the doorknob.

"Everything okay?"

"Umm…I locked myself out of my apartment—my car keys…my house keys…are inside. And…umm…the landlord doesn't…doesn't come back until later tonight so…"

"I'll come pick you up," he said, graciously keeping her from letting go of some dignity.

"Thanks."

* * *

She was sitting on the stoop to the front of the building when Greg pulled up. She entered the passenger side of his car, returning the small grin and nod he gave her.

"Thanks again—I can't believe I locked my keys inside. I feel so stupid."

"Don't," he replied, pulling the car out of the parking lot. "It happens all the time. Oh, and there's some dinnfast in the back seat if you want some. It should still be warm." A wide smirk spread across his face as he made a right turn onto the busy road.

She ate the chicken-less fajita silently, staring out the window as Greg drove. Detective Rayfield showing up at her apartment had been quite an interesting experience she hoped not to relive for a second time. She felt like she was twelve years old all over again, being yelled at for three hours by this strange man, accusing her of killing her own father. There had been tears and fear then. There was certainly fear now, and she was sure it wouldn't take long for there to be tears. After several months of being called back for questioning over and over, she was _so _relieved to finally be rid of that man. And here he was again. Those same piercing blue eyes that would make you tell him what he wanted to hear, even if it was a lie, had stared at her just a few minutes ago.

She didn't notice Greg watching her, and was slightly startled when he suddenly spoke. "You sure you're okay?"

She waved her hand at him. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"What happened that made you freak out on the phone?"

Sara shrugged. "Some idiot just pulled out in front of me in the parking lot and almost ran into me."

"And it took you nearly ten minutes after that to find out you had no keys?"

"We shared words." She smirked.

Greg laughed at that and they continued in silence.

Then suddenly she saw it. The same old, blue, sedan, glaring at her in the rearview mirror. The night was growing darker, and she couldn't see his face in the darkness, but she knew it was him.

"Greg," she said uneasily.

"What?" he glanced at her briefly, but continued driving.

"Turn right at this next road."

"Why?" He looked at her quickly with an eyebrow raised.

"Just do it." Her voice was level, but inside she felt jittery and on edge.

He did so and Sara was crushed to see the car follow.

"Right again."

Again, he did as she told, and again she was disappointed to see the sedan in the rearview.

She continued throwing out commands, and Greg continued following them. He asked her several times what was going on, but she noticed him looking in the rearview mirror and the questions died down after that. Finally, the sedan disappeared, and she could only breathe a sigh of relief.

"Who was _that_?" They had driven into a quiet suburban area, and Greg slowed down slightly as they tried to find their way out.

"You saw it?"

"Well it's kind of hard _not_ to notice when that car goes left, right, left, left, right, left, right, a bazillion times in the same order you do!" He was looking nervously over his shoulder every few seconds.

Sara let out a deep exhale and said quietly, "Let's go to work, Greg."

"Who was following us though?"

She turned and looked out her window, to avoid eye contact, as she replied, "I don't know."

Greg watched her for a moment before turning his eyes back to the road. "You spilled taco sauce on your shirt by the way."

She looked down, and sure enough, there was one giant red glob right in the middle of her black t-shirt. Could the day get any worse? "Just…get us to work, Greg…" She entered her purse and pulled out a tissue to wipe it the sauce off with. As he drove back to the main road, she couldn't help but glance every few minutes at the rearview, and she knew that Greg was as well. The situation she was in seemed to become less and less surreal as time went on. She really _was _being investigated—by the psycho detective of her nightmares, no less.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry about the wait! School pretty _sucks_. I'm taking this class, and we do a LOT of writing, so there's not much time for the stuff I actually WANT to write:( Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's fairly long.

* * *

**

Chapter Five

The sidewalk of the crime scene was in front of an entire half a block of apartment buildings, five stories high, and the walls made of red brick. The scene was still surrounded by yellow tape and well lit by streetlights, shining in the dark that had fallen so quickly. Sara stood near the middle of the rectangle outlined by the tape. She was fiddling with the dummy replicating Tony Hammond, positioning the laser inside of him, and referencing a drawing on the clipboard in her hand. Greg was to the far left of Sara, working with a much smaller foam dummy, representing Samantha.

Warrick arrived an hour after the other two had left Sara's apartment. He pulled up behind Greg's Denali and headed out to greet them.

"Nobody invited me to the party?" he said, holding his hands out as he neared. "Had to ask Ecklie where you guys were. Wasn't pleasant."

Sara mentally slapped her forehead. She'd been so nervous and jumpy after being tailed by Rayfield she'd forgotten to call Warrick to ask him if he wanted to come along.

"Sorry, Warrick. I meant to call but got distracted," Sara answered as she adjusted the laser in Tony and checked the drawing again.

"Yeah, heard that before." He strode up next to her and examined the laser. "What had _you _of all people so distracted?"

Greg turned around to glance at Sara and they made eye contact. Should they tell Warrick about the tail? Greg shrugged and averted his gaze, returning to the task at hand. The decision was up to her, it seemed.

Sara shrugged, looking back at Warrick. "Work. I wanted to get started." She threw him a false grin.

"Oh really? The one thing that distracts you from responsibilities of work…is work?" He almost laughed—there was a definite sideways grin.

"Yeah." She smiled again, turning her head away and pretending to look busy. "Why don't you _start _workingand go put a laser in Archie what's-his-name over there. I set it on the ground next to him."

Once the dummies were all set up, Sara gave the word to turn on the lasers. The lights all flickered on and the three of them quickly noted their locations. Samantha's beam of red light led, as suspected, to the back of Tony.

"Samantha got hit with the through-and-through," Greg declared from his post.

Behind Archie Murray's replica, the light led to the tree where his bullet was found. But what was most surprising was where the shots that killed the two men came from. Both of their laser beams were on the other's elbow.

"Sara…" Warrick said slowly. "Bend up Tony's right arm, like he was gonna shoot somebody." Warrick was squinting at the two dummies, his jaw set firmly as he stared at each in turn. He did the same to Archie's dummy, bending his forearm.

Sara did as she was ordered, and saw what Warrick was getting at when the red point of light met up with Tony's hand.

"Tony and Archie shot each other…" Sara stated softly. "What are the chances of that happening? Both of them firing at virtually the same time?"

Warrick shrugged. "Well, one thing is for certain…" He gestured at the scene. "There are no guns here, which means that somebody had to have taken them."

"Taking evidence from a murder scene is still a crime. We still have a case." Sara concluded.

Warrick nodded affirmatively.

They began to clear up and Sara continued to feel more and more anxious. She was looking over her shoulder at passing cars, trying to make sure they weren't the one she feared. She was jumpy, and her heart pounded deafeningly at the sound of every wheel. On the outside, she knew nobody had a clue exactly how stressed out she felt. It was always like this, and she knew it wasn't good for her health (mental or otherwise), but she hardly knew anything else. Burdening her friends with her own problems and the aftereffects of that were not something she enjoyed.

Towards Rayfield, she felt nothing but hatred. All the memories she had of him were full of that feeling. The fact that he had been following her and Greg only made it worse. She was scared of him, she knew, and it was hard to admit it to herself—impossible to admit it to anybody else. Except Max, she thought, feeling suddenly embarrassed. Earlier today, she'd told _him_ her feelings, if only in a single word. She'd told him she was afraid, so what was so wrong with everybody else she knew? The people who had been her good friends for several years? Why couldn't she tell _them?_

Sara was putting the littlest dummy in the back of Greg's vehicle as Warrick approached with one of the larger ones.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey…" she replied, noting bitterly her tone had been that of despair. He was going to ask questions now.

"You okay?" he questioned softly.

Furious, Sara tried not to grit her teeth. She looked up and met his gaze, but only briefly. The dummy was refusing to cooperate and she was finding herself frustrated with making it fit among everything else in the Denali.

"Sara," Warrick said slowly, subtly rolling his eyes through a sigh.

"What?" she snapped, turning to face him. Suddenly anger was boiling and she was having trouble calming it down.

"I asked you if you were okay." He was stern, but still soft, with only an echo of annoyance.

"I'm _fine._" She returned to the task at hand.

He set his hand on hers, stopping her actions. He set the large dummy on the ground, then took the small one from her, slid it sideways, and eased it properly into the car. His fit neatly in next.

Sara tried hard not to frown, squeezing her lips tightly, as if she was sucking on a lemon.

"What's going on?"

Angrily she turned to him, straining harder to keep composure. "Nothing, I already told you. I'm fine, Warrick." She tried to smile, but damnit, she was getting teary eyed. Lying wasn't helping.

"Sara—"

"Stop _worrying_!"

"No, Sara…look at yourself." He closed the trunk of the car, and Sara glanced at her faint reflection in the rear-window.

"You look like you haven't had a day off in months. You just took one yesterday. First of all, that vacation day was kind of unexpected. Second, you've been looking over your shoulder constantly the entire time you've been here. I'm asking you so I can do something to _help you_. I don't care if you don't want to tell me exactly what it is; I just want you to find some help."

She tore her eyes away from her sunken image in the window and glared at Warrick. He did nothing but stare calmly back. Her eyes turned away first, and as she walked away, she muttered under her breath just loud enough for him to hear, "I told you there's nothing wrong..."

Warrick turned to enter his car as Sara walked up to the side of Greg's Denali. Greg was in the driver's seat, paging through a collection of CD's, and Sara glanced in at him before opening the passenger door.

"Hey, I have to go back to my apartment really soon, my landlord is going to be back in about fifteen minutes and I want to catch him before he goes to sleep."

He nodded distractedly. "Sure…"

"I'll tell Warrick to meet us back at the lab—that it won't take more than half an hour."

Greg appeared to be only half-heartedly listening to her speak as he victoriously emerged from the CD's. The disk was inserted into the player, giving Sara cue to leave as loud rock music washed over the interior of the Denali.

Sara headed back to Warrick's car, where the man sat behind the wheel. She bent down to the window to speak to him, but found it difficult to start.

"Greg and I are…well I locked my keys in the house. We're going back to catch my landlord and I'll see you back at the lab in about a half hour."

He nodded, and she could tell he was trying to think of something to say as well. The topic turned again to work. "Meet me back here actually. I think I'm going to call Brass—we should look around for that gun. Suspect mighta dropped it somewhere around here on this block, or the next."

"Alright."

Silence. Was he expecting her to say something else?

"Look, Warrick, I promise you, there is nothing you need to worry about."

He nodded, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "That's fine, but you know if there's anything any of us can do about it we will. Any of us—you know that."

Sara forced a smile. "Okay, Warrick. Thanks." She nodded a goodbye and headed back to the slightly vibrating Denali.

"Greg! Turn it down!" she shouted.

He stopped bobbing his head and glanced at her as she entered the car, her hands over her ears. She mouthed the words to him again, and this time he obliged.

"Sorry," he said.

As Greg pulled ahead, Sara looked back at the rearview mirror, trying to see Warrick as they drove away, but a set of headlights behind his vehicle blinded her. She squinted against them, and her inner alarm bells signaled when the car pulled up behind Warrick and stopped. She couldn't make out the color of the new vehicle but her heart jumped into her throat when she saw Rayfield exit it.

"Greg, stop!" she shouted.

"What?"

"Stop the car! Let me out!" She fumbled with her seatbelt and unlocked the door, jumping out of the Denali as it slowed. The car beeped in protest to the open door, but Sara blatantly ignored it, as well as Greg, who kept asking her what was going on. Rayfield had leaned against Warrick's car and it seemed the two men were talking—about what, Sara could only guess, though it would be a very good one.

"Hey!" she shouted, storming towards the two of them.

Rayfield looked up and straightened at the sight of her, though one arm still rested on the side of Warrick's vehicle.

"_What are you doing here_?" Sara hissed, folding her arms to keep them from shaking.

Rayfield glanced at Warrick who looked utterly confused. The detective turned back to Sara and began to speak. "I was just asking some questions. Why is that so wrong? It's my job."

"Well I'm doing mine here, so I would really appreciate it if you would _leave_."

"I have as much right to be here as you," the man said coolly.

Immense frustration filled her and she clenched her hands tightly, her nails digging into her arms. "Please, just _get out_ _of here_." She didn't want much revealed in front of Warrick. His presence was making her even more uptight, and she felt Greg approach as well.

"Maybe you two should talk in private," Warrick suggested sternly.

Sara jerked her head to the side, gesturing for them to move onto the sidewalk, by a chain-link fence and away from everybody else. She felt like a child, holding in a temper tantrum while at the same time wanting to run and hide. The two of them stood in the cover of the trees, the streetlights casting eerie shadows of them across the sidewalk. Her lips pursed as she bit her cheek with irritation, crossing her legs where she stood, looking at the ground. His stance was more authoritative, his feet planting themselves evenly and firmly, his gaze harsh and unwavering.

Rayfield was the one who began. "Sara, I don't know what you think you're getting away with here, or what you've been getting away with."

She forced her voice to be calm and level as she cast a sideways glance. "I haven't done anything wrong." Breathlessly, almost despairingly, she added, "I don't know what ever made you _think_ I would do that in the first place…"

The detective's features softened, if only for a moment, before he turned back to the authoritarian. "Sara, we have DNA evidence processing _right_ now. Within the next 48 hours, we will get those results."

Numbness suddenly filled her, and her mouth hung open. Without thinking, she managed in an outburst, "DNA? _What_ DNA? There wasn't—"

"DNA technology barely even existed when Allen's murder took place," Rayfield hissed suddenly. "You _know_ you and your father have the same blood type. We had no clue there were two samples back then, because there was no DNA to differentiate."

"But, Laura's—"

"You know Laura has a different blood type than the both of you!" His appearance was becoming more threatening, and his harsh whispers were slowly becoming louder.

Panic was quickly filling her every limb, and the urge to run was becoming close to unbearable. DNA. DNA. DNA. She knew what that meant in a case. It meant near certainty. How could there be two samples on the knife? So far as she could remember, she'd never even touched it. "There can't…there _can't_ be two samples," she nearly pleaded, frantically brushing hair out of her face.

He was yelling now. "Why? _Why_ can't there be two samples? Because you were _twelve _years old? Because you're a _girl_? Because it was your _father_? Because you would _never _kill family? Do you think age, gender, or whatever has _anything_ to do with being a murderer? So you tell me, Sara! Do you think saying there can't be two samples would make the truth any less than what it is? There are two sets of DNA! Who do you think the second one is going to belong to? There was _nobody_ else_ in that house_!"

Tears suddenly fell involuntarily down her face. "STOP!" she yelled, wiping the wetness from her cheeks. "Go _away_! Get out of my _life, please!_ You have no more business coming anywhere near me, or my friends, or my job. I _don't_ want to see you again." She choked through a small sob. "God, I _never _wanted to see you again!" She took a deep breath and turned to leave, but his hand suddenly shot out, resting on her shoulder. She spun around and viciously spat, "_Don't_ touch me! Don't _ever_ touch me!"

He spoke to her rapidly receding form. "Sara, you know I'm just doing my job!"

Over her shoulder, she shot back, "Then stop wasting your time with me and go bother somebody else!"

She stormed onward, marching straight past Greg and Warrick standing helpless and confused on the curb. Greg peeked over his shoulder as Rayfield took a final long look at Sara and nodded his head at the two other men. The old man entered his sedan and drove away into the night, leaving Greg and Warrick _still_ very confused.

Warrick spoke up after a couple of long, silent seconds. His voice was very subdued. "I'm going to call Brass. We'll get a small search team out here to look for that gun. In the meantime, why don't you take Sara home."

"Yeah, okay," Greg mumbled, matching Warrick's tone. "And just so you know, that guy was following us earlier. That's what actually had Sara distracted; she said she didn't know who it was that was tailing us, but we obviously know she does."

"He's a detective," Warrick muttered. "Only got to ask me one question before Sara marched over."

"What was it?"

"Has Sara ever mentioned her family to you?" he quoted.

"And what'd you say?"

He shrugged. "I said no."

Greg paused to take the thought in, noting curiously that the same went for him, and as far as he knew, everybody else in the lab. She never talked about her past. And now that he was actually thinking about that fact, it was striking him as very, _very _odd. Not a word. No mention of Christmas gifts from them, no birth announcements, no phone calls, and no visits. Were they dead? Did they kick her out? Was her relationship with them nonexistent? He had no idea, but was sure she wasn't going to answer any of those questions if he asked. She was too distraught.

He walked away, nodding goodbye to Warrick as he did so. The older man returned it, pulling out his cell and dialing Brass. Greg approached the Denali slowly, wondering whether to say anything to her or not. He could say something, and have her bite his head off, or worse, start crying. But that way he might get some answers. He could say nothing, and she would go home and do something not so great from all the bottled up emotions. But at least he wouldn't have to see her cry…

Greg opened the driver's side door and saw Sara, as suspected, sitting in the passenger seat. Her knees were brought up to her chin, her arms folded across them. Her sleeves were wet with tears, and her face shone from the streetlights. Her appearance worried him slightly. She looked pitiful…and scared. It was then he knew—whatever that detective was here about, it was _very_ serious.

"Hey," Greg said as nonchalantly as he could.

Sara said nothing as she stared out the window.

"Umm…" He was still trying to make the decision, but he knew she was already crying. Guess it didn't really matter what he did then. "Umm…that guy…"

"Just take me home Greg…" she said meekly. "Please." Her voice squeaked as she held back a sob, and she sniffed. "I just want to go home."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Greg stood tentatively behind Sara at her apartment door, not wanting to step forward in case she lashed out, but not wanting to back away from mere concern for her wellbeing. The two of them bickered lightly back and forth, as Sara fumbled with the spare key. Mostly Greg gave small offerings of assistance, and Sara snapped at him for the suggestion.

"Look, are you sure you don't want me to come in and make sure you're alright? Do you want _chocolate_ or something?"

"_No_, Greg! I already told you, I only need to make a phone call," she hissed. An angry, rough sigh escaped as the door finally opened and she barged into her apartment. Greg shouted a final offer as the door slammed in his face, Sara leaning despondently against the other side.

"Sara!" he shouted, his voice stifled through the wood.

"I'll be _fine_!" she insisted. "Just…just tell Grissom I'm going to need a few days off."

There was silence for a moment, before Greg reluctantly agreed to do so. He began to speak again, but she cut him off.

"Greg, listen to me, alright?" She slid down the door with her back against the wood. "If you ever_ needed_ to know what went on in my life, I would tell you when I was ready."

"A detective pretty much stalking you and asking your coworkers about your family doesn't count as a need-to-know thing?" came his muffled and confused voice.

She said nothing, picking at her nails and waiting for him to leave, despite him repeating the question and calling her name. A few minutes later, he left with a goodbye and assurance he would tell Grissom about her vacation days. When he was gone, Sara finally felt comfortable and alone enough to set her head in her hands and let go of the tension and fear being held back. The tears poured as she sobbed hard and long, her own crying almost as loud as her worried thoughts.

Who knew that within 72 hours her life would be smashed so badly? There was no way to pick up those pieces, so here she was left scrambling. The DNA for one—that had come out of nowhere. Worse, she knew it was going to be hers. And _worst_, she couldn't think of how her blood could have ever gotten onto the murder weapon in the first place. Never could she remember even going near the knife—how could have her blood and DNA gotten onto it? It was inconceivable.

Then there was Rayfield again. A very, _very_ strong inkling told her they were going to meet up again sometime within the next two days. When the DNA results came back, he was going to be at her door within minutes. She would get booked…put in jail… A shiver ran up her back, her shoulder shuddering as it ended, and she tried to divert from that thought. But it lingered.

Who would be there when she needed bail? Would she be forced to sit in a cell until the trial? How could anyone know to come and get her if she refused to let them know what was going on? Did she honestly think they would think so different of her if they knew her mother was a murderer? _Why _did she always refuse to let them know? Insisting she was okay, when it was obvious they didn't believe her? Insisting nothing was wrong when they know something was? Insisting they didn't need to worry when it was already too late? _Why…?

* * *

_

_…"I'm so sorry, honey, I'm so sorry…" Red flashes. Streams in jagged stripes along the walls. Flashing, imprinting their frightful image forever. "Baby I'm sorry…" Brown hair tangles in the red. Curly and dark with streams of color. The guilty one. Flashes of white. Red. A whimper, a cry. And a scream…_

Sara woke up with a sharp gasp, her breathing erratic as she looked around at her surroundings. The cool tile she laid on was her own kitchen—her own, safe, kitchen. Then she heard the pounding knock.

"Sara? You alright?"

Catherine. Of all people.

She sighed heavily and shouted a quick yes through the door, brushing her hair out of her face and noting angrily that it was damp and flat against her face. Sara pushed herself off the ground and tried to put her hair back into place.

"May I come in?" the older woman asked apprehensively.

"Umm, yes…yes!" Sara fidgeted some more, straightening out her shirt and jeans, and grabbing a towel from the edge of her stove to wipe off her face before opening the door.

"Oh," Catherine said, taken aback slightly when Sara appeared in the doorway. "Did I catch you in the shower?"

Sara let her jaw hang, slightly dumbfounded as she stumbled over her words. Finally she managed, "Umm, yes…sorry. Just…needed to relax a little bit." She smiled falsely, then brightly said, "Come on in."

Catherine nodded politely and excused herself into the main room. She leaned against Sara's kitchen counter and looked thoughtfully around. Sara stood in front of her, wringing her hands, wondering. Did she know about Detective Rayfield? Had Greg and Warrick talked to her? What did she want to know?

"Can I, uh, get you anything?" Sara asked tentatively. She gestured in at the living area, towards the armchairs and couch. "You can sit down, if you want to…"

The other woman smiled and swept over to an armchair and sat, crossing her legs and setting her folded hands on her knee. She continued to look interestedly around at the apartment. Sara sat down on the sofa next to the chair. She pulled her legs up underneath her, setting her head between her forefinger and thumb, waiting in silence for Catherine to state her business.

"It's pretty nice here," Catherine finally said, speaking softly and tenderly, a warm smile across her face. When Sara replied with nothing but a shrug and small grin, the older woman said, "I, uh, heard about the detective. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Sara said without hesitation, averting her gaze down and to the side. "Who told you?"

"Warrick…and Greg. They're both worried about you. They said the guy seems to mean business." Catherine raised an interested eyebrow. "Still don't want to talk?"

Sara slapped herself mentally. She'd meant to call Max and tell him about the detective pestering her. But this was her _chance_. This was her chance to break the silence, let the people she knew, know she was _not_ okay. But why _couldn't _she? Her mind said to _say something_ but her mouth refused. Though if she were to speak, where to begin? Start with the murder or the investigation being held _now_? Start with her mother, or the detective? Her emotions or the facts?

Deciding she might as well just let herself talk, she forced her mouth to speak. "I…" A shrug. "I don't know where to start, really." And if she had to tell someone, it probably wouldn't be Catherine…but the woman had come to her, and somebody needed to know. Maybe not about the circumstances of the murder, simply the reason for the investigation.

"How do you know Detective Rayfield?" Catherine's smile was fading, replaced with a soft, sad look.

Instead, Sara cleared her throat and brought her hands together in her lap, where she fidgeted. She straightened out her shirt and began to pick at her nails, watching her hands with intense focus. "He investigated…umm, a murder. A while ago. A _long_ time ago."

"In San Francisco?"

"No, no. Before that. Before _college_, even." Sara shrugged. "Somebody else was prosecuted then, but he's gone and reopened the case. That's all."

Catherine gazed at her, slightly slack-jawed as she took in the information. "How old were you?" she asked.

Sara mumbled, "Twelve…thirteen at the trial."

"And who was—"

A sudden sharp knock sounded, and the women's heads snapped to the door.

"Who—" Catherine began, but was cut off by a silencing glance from Sara.

Another knock. "Police, open up!"

Sara flung herself from the sofa, in a slight panic as her mind raced. She didn't go to the door, but instead to the kitchen counter where her message pad sat. "Do-don't come in!" she blurted out as she scribbled a number on the pad. "I just got out of the shower…let me get some clothes on!"

"Sara, we're opening this door…" Rayfield.

"Hold _on!_" She fled back across the room and shoved the piece of paper into Catherine's palm just as a large crunch signaled the door had been kicked down.

"The number belongs to a friend of mine, Max," she said breathlessly, even as the police officers swarmed her, dragging her hands behind her back and cuffing them. "Call him. He'll tell you _everything._"

"Sara—"

"Just _do_ it, okay?" She looked at Catherine with teary eyes as the officers turned her around and began to whisk her away.

"Okay…" the woman replied quietly, tightening her grip on the number in her hand.

They shared a final long glance as the cops pushed her out. Rayfield glanced at Catherine and nodded. Angrily, she glared back at him until he stepped out of the apartment, leaving her there alone, with nothing but a phone number and the promise of answers. The commotion mere seconds before had been loud, but the silence that followed was deafening.


	7. Chapter 7

****

**Chapter Seven**

Catherine fumbled with her cell phone as she entered her car, sitting in the parking lot in front of Sara's apartment complex. With one shaking hand she held the scribbled number and dialed it with her other. As the phone rang on the other end, she stuck her keys in the transmission and backed out.

"Hello?" came the man's voice.

"Is…is this Max?" she asked impatiently.

"Yes." He sounded slightly confused.

"Hi there. Umm…I-I'm Catherine Willows—a colleague of Sara…and-and she told me to call you." She pulled out into the street and continued to speak. "She's been arrested, and apparently the only people who know _why_ are you and her and the cops who did it!"

Silence.

"Hello?" she asked.

"I'll be there in a few hours."

"Hey-Hey wait a minute! Can I at least have the basics? Come on! I've got hardly any context here! All I know is that it's a murder and she was only 12 when it happened!"

He let out a whoosh of air on the other end and replied, "That's all you need to know right now. I'm coming to Las Vegas—I want to talk to her and see how she's doing. She gave you my number?"

"She _said_ you'd tell me everything I needed to know."

"I will then, when I get there. I'll Mapquest the way to the lab. Where do you want to meet me?"

Catherine sighed as she made a turn, heading for the lab. "I'll be in the front of the building, waiting for you."

* * *

"Grissom! What the hell?" Nick shouted, storming into the office, but finding that Warrick and Greg were already in there, simmering angrily in opposite corners. It was long before their shift started, but that didn't seem to matter. The Texan's gaze fleeted between the two of them, but then rested finally on Grissom, sitting at his desk, with his face resting in one hand.

"Did you know?" Nick asked furiously. "Did you know she was in trouble?"

The older man shook his head. "I had no idea of the circumstances. I figured something wasn't _right_, but I had no clue about anything else."

"We met that detective," Warrick muttered from the bench on the left side of the office. "Sara knows him. She was really upset when she saw him."

"Yeah, _really _upset," Greg added from the right side of the room. "She was pissed. Like…worse than pissed-at-Ecklie pissed."

Nick sighed through his nose, like an angry dragon, before he decided to sit in the chair by Grissom's desk. "Well what can we do?" he asked. "Do we bail her out? Go talk to her? What?"

Grissom sighed. He was almost positive what murder she'd been accused of. Why she'd been arrested was a different story. The other men had no clue why or how or what and Grissom couldn't tell them unless Sara gave the go ahead. But this may have been a good thing, since he felt he was missing a big piece of the larger picture. What evidence had suddenly shown itself and gotten Sara put in jail?

His thoughts were interrupted by voices outside his office that grew closer and closer. Catherine was familiar, but she was speaking to an unfamiliar man.

The two rounded the corner into Grissom's office, gathering the many stares of the people inside. Max nodded and gave a small wave at them, and Catherine cleared her throat.

"Umm…everyone, this is Mr. Max Hall. He worked with Sara in San Francisco and he apparently knows a whole lot more about her than any of us, so he came to umm, inform us."

Max greeted them again as Catherine swept into the room and seated herself beside Warrick on the bench.

"Please, sit down," Grissom said coolly, gesturing at the chair beside Nick. The room was dead silent as Max headed over with a quick thank you and sat himself down. "How long have you known Sara?" Grissom questioned quietly, analyzing the man with his gaze.

"Since we were kids," Max said with a nod as he tapped his fingers nervously on the arms of the chair. The many stares made him uncomfortable. He scratched his stubble gently and rubbed his hand behind his head. "Umm…I'm not entirely sure where to begin for this."

"Anywhere," Nick said with a hint of annoyance, not at Max but the circumstances.

"Well, she's been arrested for a murder that took place when she was twelve years old. The Detective—Detective Rayfield, was convinced she was guilty back then, and he's still convinced today, which I guess was one of the biggest forces towards reopening the case."

"Who was killed?" Greg asked, his hands folded under his chin with his elbows on his knees.

Max turned to him, biting his tongue slightly. "Well, uhh…well." He cleared his throat. "Have any of you noticed how she acts when women are victimized in a crime?"

The CSIs mouths stayed shut but their faces spoke for them. Each and every one of their expressions clearly said yes.

"We never really knew what to think of it," Catherine said quietly. "Was she—"

"Her mother," Max interrupted. "Was abused for years by Sara's father. Physically, mentally."

Their breathing seemed to cease as they hung on Max's every word.

"I know that both her parents were alcoholics. That her mother was hospitalized a _lot_, and that both parents had affairs."

"Was Sara ever hurt?" Greg asked fervently.

Max shook his head. "Physically, no. Mentally, not directly." He sighed. "She didn't get hurt until the night before. I remember I'd talked to her on the walk home that evening. We talked about…" He ran his hand through his hair again. "Her mother, Laura, was having the affair with my dad, see? That's what we ended up talking about, and that was the last time I saw her that night. I know that my dad and her mom were at her house when she got back and that's what got her dad angry. He was beating her mom, when she came downstairs and tried to stop him…"

Every one of them was slowly taking in the information, numbed and dumbstruck as they soaked in each new word. To think she'd walked among them, acting as if nothing had ever happened. They'd _yelled_ at her for getting emotional and personal, when she was only trying to do her job as best she could while suppressing her past.

"What happened? What'd she do?" Warrick asked calmly.

"She tried to fight him off. He ended up grabbing her wrist and throwing her against a wall, where she hit her head. That's pretty much all she got around to telling me, when we were kids and when we worked together. She wouldn't talk about…couldn't talk about finding the body."

"Her mother?" Nick asked.

"Father," Max replied flatly, throwing a glance towards the man. "He was stabbed in his sleep."

"And now…this detective thinks that _she's _the guilty one? The one who stabbed him?" Nick questioned softly.

Max nodded. "He found DNA on the knife, and her fingerprint. My brother is another detective in the same force. He's not working on the case, but he's managing to get information about what they have. He called me right after Catherine and told me about her arrest. Her mother was arrested previously for the murder. She didn't confess, but she didn't say she hadn't done it. Now she's placing the blame on Sara, which is another thing that got the case opened. Rayfield looked into Sara's background and got a hold of information on a DUI? And insubordinate behavior?"

Grissom's eyes hardened and his mouth opened slightly. "How did he get that information?"

The man shrugged. "He must have gotten it from somebody who works here, has access to it."

All eyes were on Grissom now. "Ecklie…" he managed through gritted teeth.

He flew out of his chair and stormed out of the office, one destination in mind. Catherine shot out of her seat and followed him, leaving the four other men alone.

"Ecklie!" Grissom shouted, barging into his office without introduction. The other man jumped and looked up from a pile of paperwork. When he saw who it was, he glared.

"Gil!" Catherine hissed from the doorway. "Don't do anything stupid!" she warned as the two men continued to stare each other down.

"Why did you give them that information on Sara?" Grissom yelled, his two hands on the front of Ecklie's desk.

Ecklie stood, matching Grissom's stance. "Gil, don't be ridiculous! I played only a small, nearly insignificant part in her arrest. I gave them some insight into her character at work, and that was all. Now…my part in having her fired is a completely different matter."

"You're firing her?!"

"She's been arrested for murder!" Ecklie spat. "I would rather lose one good CSI than the hundreds of cases that would be tainted!"

"She is _not _a murderer."

"The evidence says otherwise."

"Then I want to see that evidence," Grissom said sternly, straightening up as he continued glaring at Ecklie.

"I'm afraid that isn't—"

"Give him a go, Conrad," said a voice from the door.

The two men looked up and saw Detective Rayfield standing next to Catherine who was looking at the familiar man with a loathsome expression.

"Ah, yes, Detective. Come on in," Ecklie said with a sinister smile.

"Thank you, Conrad." The old man entered and seated himself in a chair beside Ecklie. "Now, Mr. Grissom. You wanted to see that evidence?"

"Yes," he replied tightly.

"Then you'll see it. I'll let you have a look at it, and Ms. Willows as well, if she likes. Under my supervision, you can go ahead and look through everything. And once you're through, I want you to tell me…is your Sara a murderer or not? I think you'll be surprised by your newfound deduction."

Both Catherine and Grissom glared.

* * *

Sara sat cross-legged on the floor of her cell, her head resting against the wall and her eyes closed. Her face was tear-stained and her arms were folded in her lap. She'd been given hours to think, and she wasn't enjoying a single minute of it. Her arrest had been mulled over and over again in her head and she couldn't help but wonder what Max would tell Catherine if she decided to call. What would people know? Once they knew, would they still think to come and talk to her? She hung her head and stared at her fingers.

Suddenly doors opened and shut and she could hear a guard speaking. She looked up at the entryway to the holding cells, searching for a familiar face. When all she saw was the big, burly guard, her face turned back to her lap, and she heaved a sigh. Footsteps neared, and she glanced up again to see Greg standing at the bars to her cell.

"Hey," he said. "You want to talk or just sit there?"

She shrugged, picking at her thumbnail. "Did…umm, Catherine call Max?" she asked softly, sniffing a little.

Greg nodded, sticking his hands through the bars and leaning against them.

"And did he tell you everything?" she mumbled low, still avoiding eye contact.

He said nothing for a moment, gazing at her, sitting there on the floor, looking the sorriest and most pitiful he'd ever seen her. "Sara, I'm sorry," he said softly. "I shouldn't have pressured you to tell me, I'm sorry. I…I realize now, how hard it would have been for you to explain."

Sara sniffed again, shaking her head. "No, don't be sorry. I wanted to tell you. I did. But I couldn't." Tears leaked and she swiped at them.

"When's your arraignment?"

"Later tonight. My lawyer still has to get here." She let go of a shuddering sigh and placed her face in her hands. "There's really no point. I don't have the money for bail."

"Well I'm sure _we_ could get it for you," Greg pointed out.

Her face grew distorted as a sob threatened, and she took in a gasping breath to stop it. She had yet to make eye contact with him. "Why would anybody want to? Catherine and I have butted heads before, Nick and Warrick probably don't think of me as anything more than a colleague, Grissom—don't even go there, and you…" She gave small sob. "I was so mean to you…I treated you like a little kid when you worked in the lab."

With a small sigh, he rolled his eyes. "Sara, come here…" he commanded gently.

Slowly she staggered to her feet, shuffling over towards him. He reached through the bars and set his hands on her upper arms, staring determinedly into her teary eyes, though her gaze was averted. "Yoohoo, look at me."

Sniveling, she looked into his eyes for the first time.

"Sara, do you have any idea how upset we were when we found out you'd been arrested? We're on your side with this. Grissom and Catherine are going to take a look at the evidence. Nick and Warrick are talking about your bail already. And Max is here in Vegas waiting to talk to you. We're going to help you get through this, okay?" He gave her a smile, and she returned one bleakly. His hands fell from her arms and went to his pockets. She leaned her elbows on the bars and sighed.

"It's just…" Sara began again. "I don't…I haven't…I didn't tell anybody before—"

"That doesn't matter. We know what's going on, and we should be the ones to—"

"No, Greg…this is different." She took in a breath. "Greg, I don't remember much…I can only remember a few small things. The amount I remember is so small I can't even…I…I only remember background information. I don't remember the actual act, or what I did, or…I can only think of are colors and feelings and people _telling_ me that my mother killed him. I don't remember _knowing_ she did it. Does that make _any _sense at all?"

"Umm…I think so," he replied, though he sounded slightly confused.

"It's alright if it doesn't because, honestly, I don't understand it all that much either…"

The guard suddenly spoke up, telling them to hurry it up.

"I guess I'll talk to you later then," Greg said.

Sara nodded. "Bye…"

And he was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Rayfield stood like a hawk at the head of the layout table, an evidence box sitting on the lit surface directly in front of him. Grissom and Catherine were on the left side of the table, both resting their hands on its edge. Their sole focus was on the box and what lay inside, hoping it would present something valuable in Sara's defense that a single-minded detective may have missed.

"Don't think you're going to be able to tamper with anything, now. You wanted to see it, you can see it, but there will be no opening any sealed bags." He gave them a sly smile that disgusted them both.

The two of them nodded in agreement to his terms as the box was pushed towards them. The very first item pulled out was the knife, upright in its cylindrical container. The old blood was dry and caked on its silver blade, and two fingerprints in a smudge of blood could be seen on the wooden handle.

"Where was the second sample of blood located on this?" Grissom asked, holding it up for the detective to see.

Rayfield nodded towards it. "Towards the handle."

Grissom looked back to the weapon, examining the fingerprints. One larger one beside a smaller one. There was something curious about their positions, so he and Catherine made silent note of it. The knife was set aside, along with the lab reports stating the presence of two sets of DNA and the fingerprint analysis.

A bagged bed spread came out next, pale yellow with a faint flower pattern on it, along with a faded blood stain in the top right corner of the folded sheet.

"This blood? This sheet?" Catherine said with a glance up.

"Both Sara's," Rayfield promptly answered.

The examination continued, the two of them growing increasingly numb as they went through everything. A pillowcase matching Sara's sheets and bearing a similar stain. Her mother's blood soaked clothes—a robe, undershirt, and sweatpants. A glass with fingerprints. A bottle of Valium. The blue sheets covered in blood, those pillowcases. Suddenly, they pulled out Sara's clothes.

"Oh God," Catherine said on an exhale. Grissom merely stared with a solemn, serious expression.

It was a small yellow t-shirt. The slightly ruffled sleeves and small flower on the chest told them it belonged to a child. The blood that covered the front and bloody handprints on the shoulders said it belonged to a child whose childhood had been stolen. The small jean shorts told the same story.

Grissom's hands felt heavy as lead as he maneuvered these things in his fingers. It felt wrong, like he was breaking rules of some sort as he held them. It was surreal, picturing Sara as young enough to fit in them, let alone get them covered in her father's blood. Catherine set her hand on the shirt, but pulled away as if she'd been burned. The same feeling lingered with her as Grissom.

Finally, they brought themselves to set the clothing aside and pull out a bulk of photographs. First came those of her father's body, and they were mildly surprised that his appearance was not of an abuser. With eyes closed, he looked like a simple business man., respected, and fairly well-to-do. He lay askew beneath blood-soaked covers, his face sprinkled in blood. The next photo, and the blankets had been pulled back and you could see the stab wounds, seven, sporadically placed across his torso. As they paged through more photos, they saw close ups of each wound, a large blood pool on the floor beside his bed, with footprints running through it, and a pile of vomit near the door.

"Whose…?" Catherine began.

"Sara's," was the detective's prompt reply.

"What is the significance of the glass and Valium?" Grissom questioned.

"Allen Sidle was drugged. We believe it was done before, on a fairly regular basis. Laura was prescribed Valium because of her injuries, and stress, and has told us she'd often times drug her husband to avoid more beatings."

"Then these are her fingerprints on the glass?"

"Yes. However, we also know that _Sara_ knows about what her mother did with the Valium, and could have easily taken that opportunity."

The two of them said nothing as they continued leafing through the photos. They reached the hospital photographs of Laura and Sara both. The resemblance was absolutely striking. Laura's eye was blackened, her bottom lip swollen. Her hair was long, curly, and ragged. Her blue eyes, lifeless. Sara's injuries were next, and Catherine found herself holding her breath in shock. There was a photo of the young girl's left arm, an enormous bruise in the shape of a large hand glaring from it. Her arm looked so small, so thin, her young hand so little. A cut on the back of her head was shown among wavy brown hair. Medical reports were stapled to the back, stating she'd suffered from a mild-moderate concussion as well.

As Grissom flipped through the last few, he asked, "What exactly do you think happened?"

Rayfield cleared his throat and rattled it off, "After she was injured, obviously she would feel betrayed. It was the first time something like that had ever happened to her. She'd go upstairs and wait for her mother to give him the Valium so things would be easier. After a couple hours of lying in bed, she goes down to see that Laura is asleep. She grabs the steak knife from the drawer, sneaks in, stabs him and wallows in her misery. Her mother arrives, gets covered in blood as well, and pulls Sara away from the body—the bloody handprints. She tells her to call the police, and Sara does so. Laura picks up the knife—her fingerprint. Not wanting to get her daughter in trouble, she takes the blame in silence. But after Sara ungratefully rejects her sacrifice, she decides years later, that the time has come to speak."

"And…the vomit by the door?" Catherine pointed out.

"Guilt," Rayfield stated simply.

* * *

"Sara!"

Squinting past a small headache, Sara opened her eyes and glanced out of the bars. But she saw none. She shot upright and saw Max standing in the open gate, the guard standing authoritatively next to him. Max was grinning, as always.

"_You're_ getting me out of here?" Sara exclaimed, stunned.

"Come on, let's go get your stuff, at the front desk," he said through that smirk. He held out a hand, she took it, and they left the holding cell. Out in the steel hallways of the LVPD, they stopped to gather her personal items.

"Thanks, Max, really," Sara said through a small smile as she placed her cellphone on her hip and took back the spare pieces of jewelry she'd worn. Her gun was not given back.

"Just don't leave the country anytime soon. I like my car." He gave her a wink.

Sara let out a small laugh, the first one she'd managed in days. "I thought Nick, Warrick, and them were working on settling my bail?" she questioned as they headed out of the building and into the parking lot. The sun was cleansing, and Sara let it warm her skin as they crossed the asphalt. It had felt so odd, being on the other side of a jail cell, and she was extremely grateful to be outside. A shudder ran through her at the thought of being in there for a full sentence.

"Well, they offered, but my car was enough to cover it." He gave her hand a squeeze, and nodded towards the left end of the lot, where she spotted his vehicle. It was after that squeeze she noticed they were still unnecessarily holding hands. She quickly snapped out of his gentle grip, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Max cleared his throat and stuck his hand in his pocket as he said, "I'm staying in a motel towards Henderson so I'll just drop you off at your apartment and head off." He looked down at her with a pleasant grin as they reached his car. They entered in their respective places and Max set the key in the ignition.

Moments of silence passed while Max drove. Sara was thinking hard. Despite the fact that she really didn't want to spend any unnecessary time with Max, (to avoid compromising situations, of course), she couldn't leave him to pay for a motel room right after he'd just filled her bail.

Sara spoke up. "You know, I guess in payment for bailing me out and telling me what was going on and risking your career and coming to Vegas and all that, I could allow you to sleep in my apartment while you're here. Free." She smiled gently.

"You'd do that?" Smirk.

"It's the very least I can do, compared to what you've done for me," she said as though it were obvious. "I mean, honestly, if it weren't for you I probably would have had a full blown panic attack when Rayfield showed up. I'd have no clue what was going on. I'd be ten times the wreck I am already."

He was still smirking as he steered them towards her home. "Well if that's what you want to do then, I'll drop you off, go grab my things and by back by dinnertime."

* * *

Sara got to her apartment door, and was greeted by a brand new front door, which she opened with a set of new keys she'd grabbed from the landlord. He'd explained to her that he felt she was not responsible for getting her door kicked in, and would then not be the one to pay for it. She entered her apartment and gave a great sigh of relief once inside. A familiar place, with familiar sights, sounds, and smells. Her shoes were kicked off and she whisked herself over to her bed, where she flopped down on the sheets, pulling them up to her face and breathing deeply. It felt so good to be home. She'd only been away for about two days, but her queen size was much more comfortable than a cold bench.

Her consciousness was bordering, when suddenly she remembered she'd offered Max a place to stay.

Shoot.

When was the last time she'd had somebody stay the night at her house? Umm…_not since Hank._ Good Lord. She shot out of bed and dashed to her closet where she grabbed a box and climbed to see the top shelf. She pulled out a beige sheet and spare pillow and set them on the ground. Shoved in the far back of her closet was a green fleece blanket and she brought that out as well. What else? What _else?_

Dinner. That meant cooking. _Damnit._

The blankets were lifted in her arms and she went out to the main room, where she deposited them on the couch. There was no way they would share a bed. The sofa was perfectly available. She put her hands on the side of her head and let out a breath of air, thinking of what she could possibly make for dinner.

She thrust open the refrigerator door and saw nothing of interest. In a slight frenzy she flung the cupboard doors open, and with a relieved sigh, saw the bare minimum required to make spaghetti—noodles and a can of sauce. Hoping Max wasn't counting on a gourmet meal, she set a pot to boil, and while she waited, made up the sofa for Max to sleep.

About fifteen minutes later, Sara was stirring the noodles in when a knock sounded on her door. Max entered a beat later, a suitcase over one shoulder.

"Hey," Sara greeted. "You're sleeping on the couch." Her head jerked over towards it as she snapped another handful of noodles in half and dumped them into the pot.

He set his suitcase on the floor beside the sofa, patting his hand on the sheet and blanket. Sara continued stirring the pasta as he headed back towards the kitchen. On the counter, settled in a corner was a jar full of pencils, pens, knickknacks, and other things, which Max reached into to pull out a hair clip.

"How'd you know that was in there?" Sara asked with a sly smile.

"I remember things." Max reached over to her dark hair, pulling it all back before he twisted it up in the clip. The next thing she knew, his hands snuck around her waist, clasping gently over her belly button as his head found its place between her neck and shoulder.

"Get…off…" Sara said tightly, troubled by how comforted his actions made her feel.

"Why…?" he asked in joking whine. "It feels just like old times…"

"There is a _reason_ you are sleeping on the couch," she hissed, taking the wooden spoon she was using for the sauce and raising it threateningly.

Max let out a small chuckle. She could feel the corner of his smirk press softly into her neck, and she let the spoon fly, smacking him on the tip of his nose. He sprang up immediately, both hands on his nose, the red leaking down of the tomato nature, not blood. Sara couldn't help but smile as he assessed the damage she'd done. With a joking glare, he headed off in search of the bathroom.

There was another knock at the door, and Sara cried, "Come in!"

The knob turned, and all she saw was a giant vase of yellow lilies making their way into her apartment, with a pair of legs sticking out the bottom.

"It's Greg!" came his voice from beyond the flora.

"Wow…" Sara whispered, sweeping over to him quickly and relieving him of the massive gift. She lifted it up onto the counter beside her message pad and phone.

Greg grinned. "It's from all of us. Kind of a…sorry, congratulations, good luck present. And we felt bad about not being able to add to getting you out of jail."

A large smile crept across her face, not at all fake. She eagerly reached to him and gave him a tight hug, which he returned. "They're beautiful, Greg. Thanks so much."

He shrugged as she let go, his eyes pointed towards the ceiling as he gave her his silly, 'it was nothing' expression. With eyebrows raised, he peeked over Sara's shoulder to see the pot of boiling noodles. "Ooh…what's for dinner?"

Still grinning, Sara said, "Spaghetti—want to join?"

"Always ready for a chance to try the Sara Sidle cuisine. Want me to set the table?"

"That'd be great—three plates, three forks, three glasses."

He stopped midway to the cupboard. "Three?"

"Max is in the bathroom, wiping tomato sauce off his face," Sara added, with a soft snicker.

"Oh, _he's _here, huh?" he said with as little accusation as possible. Merely curiosity. Plates, silverware, and glasses were pulled out of the cupboards and drawers as Sara continued cooking. He placed them on the island as Max ambled out of the bathroom.

"Ah, hey there…Greg, isn't it?" Max said upon catching sight of the other man.

"Hey. We can't thank you enough for bailing Sara out, really. Putting your car up for collateral was a great thing, man."

Sara silently agreed as she watched the two men talk. It probably showed, how happy she was to be home, and the fact that she'd been so warmly welcomed back despite everybody's new knowledge made everything so much less stressful. Greg and Max sat down at the table, still speaking lightly with each other as Sara brought over the finished dinner, setting it on a hot pad in the middle of everything. They served themselves, and as they ate, Greg got to know Max a little more. He asked him about his favorite teams, his past jobs, his family. Sara listened to all the familiar information, smiling over the fact they seemed to be getting along well.

"So…you guys have known each other since you were kids, right?" Greg asked. The spaghetti had been finished long before, and Sara had handed out a beer to each of them as they continued talking.

"Yeah, and she wasn't much different back then, let me tell _you_," Max joked, causing both him and Sara to laugh. "As bold, stubborn, smart, and cute back then as she is today."

"Come on man, gimme the dirt!" Greg pressed teasingly, throwing Sara mischievous sideways glances.

"Well…there isn't really anything," Max declared, folding his hands behind his head, suddenly steeped in thought.

"I wasn't that interesting Greg, honestly," Sara added with a chuckle.

"Now, now, wait a minute," Max began suddenly. "If I do recall, a certain playground scuffle. You and me, against Meghan Berg and Sally Baker—remember?"

Sara looked at the ceiling, thinking hard. "That was…over the picture I drew, right? Fifth grade?"

Max laughed, his tilted smile clear as day. "That was _sweet_."

Sara smiled back, knowing he was matching his own quote from all those years ago. "And I was so scared my dad was going to get angry, but he ended up buying me a puppy so I could make friends!"

Greg choked on his beer. "_The _Sara Sidle—no friends?"

A shrug and grin, and the conversations continued, Sara feeling safe, comfortable, and happy for the first time in too long.


End file.
